


time we have wasted on the way

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Epilogue, Gen, Ghosts, Guardian Angels, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Reincarnation, Spirit Animals, Spoilers, everyone deserved better, except micah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 18:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19011079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: John’s a little more prepared for the bear he spots on the edge of the grounds in the dusk, lumbering through the trees with a crow clinging to its back. The crow caws softly when it sees him, and the bear turns and stops, as ifJohnis the ghost.The long-dead members of the Van der Linde Gang come to call at Beecher’s Hope.





	time we have wasted on the way

John’s sound asleep in his bed at Beecher’s Hope when the familiar sound of a woodpecker wakes him. He wouldn’t care, normally, pull the pillow over his head and try to sleep through it, but it’s the middle of the night and the sound is far too close. Is the damn thing pecking on the house?

He rolls up, taking his gun with him from under the pillow, and opens the window. The sound stops.

The moon hangs high over the ranch. It’s utterly cloudless, which is unusual. John is about to turn around and go back to a well-earned rest when, on his last look around, he spots the bird — directly above him, staring at him. John doesn’t know woodpeckers but this one looks big, with a wicked beak. The hole it’s pecked is only just visible in the shadow of the eaves.

He tries to shoo it away while it stares at him, but it’s not afraid. After a long time where it just watches him, taunting him, it turns back to its task.

Fine, he thinks. He aims, shoots the thing and pulls back to avoid getting it on his head.

Except no annoying bird corpse drops. There’s just the sound of the bullet hitting wood, a pause, and then hammer of the beak starts up all over again. Did he miss?

He sticks his head back out. The woodpecker is still there, only giving him a glance. The bullethole is above it, on the underside of the eaves, and John wonders how the hell he missed.

“John?” Charles calls, coming around the house with his sawed-off in his hand. “You good?”

“Yeah, just this damn bird,” he says, gesturing.

Charles’ gaze follows his hand and his eyes widen. He stops hard, staring at the woodpecker. “John…?”

“What?”

“Did you try to shoot it?”

“Yeah. Missed.”

Charles slowly takes his eyes off the bird, which continues on its merry way as if it can’t hear them half-yelling over it. He looks… scared? “No, you didn’t. I think that’s…”

“ _What?_ ”

“Never mind. Go back to sleep, I think he’ll be done soon.”

John does wonder how he could possibly know that, but does as directed with only a passing rude gesture at the woodpecker. He’s not back in bed five minutes, Abigail murmuring sleepily beside him, when the pecking stops.

In the morning he almost forgets about the events of the night, but Charles takes him by the elbow after breakfast and guides him out of the house and around to outside his own bedroom. In the light of day they’re unmistakable: the initials pecked into the wood between the eaves and the window.

_S.M._

#

A few days later John has almost gotten over it. He’s outside with Jack, leaning on the fence and watching the sun rise over the field where the horses roam. It rained overnight, and he has to peer through the thick mist over the grass to spot the one thing out of place.

It’s a horse, but it’s not one of theirs.

It emerges from the mist like a specter, walking steadily toward them. Spindly, no, emaciated, with a gray coat and black mane and tail, and white spots like a sleeping-mask over its eyes. Their horses balk at its presence, whinnying nervously and high-stepping to the far end of the field, but it walks on, only glancing at the herd before those soulful eyes return to Jack, clinging to the fence.

His son gasps as the horse reaches them and leans its long head down to gently press against his chest. This close, John can now see the thin white stripe looping around its neck.

“Pa,” Jack whispers, carefully reaching up to pat it, “Pa, can horses have green eyes?”

When he speaks, his voice is foreign to his own ears. “That’s not a horse.”

Jack turns his head, startled, and the not-horse spooks, dancing back a few feet. Large eyes — and they are _very_ green — watch John with fear and a bone-deep weariness.

“Then…?” Jack starts, but he trails off, sucking in a sharp breath. He knows, and John knows now, too.

The ghost given horse-shape bows his head, an apology, a surrender, and in the next instant the sun crests the horizon fully, light spilling over the fields and banishing the mists, and he is gone as quickly as he appeared.

#

John’s a little more prepared for the bear he spots on the edge of the grounds in the dusk, lumbering through the trees with a crow clinging to its back. The crow caws softly when it sees him, and the bear turns and stops, as if _John_ is the ghost.

For a while they stare at each other, then the crow takes to the skies, soaring overhead and leaving them alone. John can’t take his eyes off the bear; his heart thuds painfully in his chest, which just won’t expand no matter how hard he tries to breathe. It’s him. It’s his father.

It’s impossible, but so was getting out of the life back then.

“Hosea?” he croaks.

The bear snuffles, taking a step closer, then another. John wants to run to him, but his feet are rooted to the earth, and instead he falls to his knees in a heap, a cloud of dust puffing up around him.

Then Hosea is there, right there, as real and warm as anything, coarse gone-gray fur held tight in John’s fists but he doesn’t even flinch, just patiently stands still while John buries his face in his neck and sobs.

It’s too soon, not nearly enough time, when someone shouts, and the shotgun blast has Hosea pulling away and running back into the trees. He disappears into the darkness.

“John, John what the _fuck_ —” It’s Sadie, still holding her gun in one hand and hauling him up with the other, checking him over like she isn’t sure whether to kill him or kiss him for being alive and unharmed. “What the ever-loving hell— did I fucking _miss_ —”

“Hosea,” is all he gets out.

“—I was aiming right at its head— _What?_ ”

He raises his face, blinking the film of tears away, and gives her a long look before turning around and stumbling back toward the house. The crow caws morosely from the roof, silhouetted by the moon.

#

A week passes, then another, and no more strange animals turn up. John cannot seem to rest, his dreams filled with corpses. Sean, thrown over the back of Bill’s horse like a deer, the right side of his head blown off. Kieran’s last ride. Hosea’s disbelief in the seconds before he turned around, and Lenny, whose death he never saw and would never understand.

“Hey, what’s that?” Uncle’s voice, rough from sleep and slurred from drink, startles John from his half-doze on the porch. He’d just closed his eyes for a second, but that was enough to conjure a hallucination of… of himself, covered in blood.

He can’t stop the shudder that seizes him, and looks to Uncle for a distraction. Follows the point of the other man’s finger.

Something small and red disappears around the corner of the barn.

“Fox,” John grumbles. It’s broad daylight so he’s not too concerned about it, but he gets up anyway. Barely has he stood when the thing peeks back around the barn, yips at him, and is out of sight once more. Teasing him. Almost like…

He half-runs for the barn, skidding around the corner and nearly running over the fox. Up close it’s a darker red than others of its kind, the exact shade of Molly’s hair. The normally pure white chin, cheeks and throat are speckled, like freckles. It — she — yips at him, turning in circles before sitting down and staring at him expectantly.

“Molly O’Shea?” he asks, to be sure.

She yips again, tongue darting out, and stands, turning away. She looks off toward the trees for a long moment, her demeanor turning… sad.

John waits, though he isn’t sure what he’s waiting for. Isn’t sure until the distant howl of a coyote has Molly’s ears perking forward. She glances at John sidelong, bobs her head, and lopes for the trees, lost in the underbrush within moments.

When he returns to Uncle, the older man is, oddly enough, wide awake. “What was it?” he asks.

“Just a fox,” John lies.

_#_

Much as he wants to wait around the ranch for the other ghosts — or one in particular — he does feel silly enough about it to not say anything when Abigail insists. So it is that he’s coming back from a trip into Blackwater when she meets him on the road. He jumps when he sees her there, wringing her hands, and his only thought is _Jack_.

He’s right, but not in the way he thinks. She shakes her head when he asks, voice cracking, then clarifies just as his heart starts beating again. “There’s… you’d best see for yourself. It won’t leave him alone.”

He’s panicked enough to forget the ghosts, spurring Rachel past Abigail and on to the ranch proper. No one else is around, but on a hunch he heads for the house. A yowl pierces the air just as he reaches the hitching post, like an angry cougar, and it’s coming from inside the house.

Bursting through the front door with his gun in hand, he’s not sure what he’ll do if it is a cougar, other than protect his boy.

It isn’t a cougar. It’s a cat, a big cat but still a cat, sitting outside Jack’s bedroom door with its fluffy tail swishing at the floor. It fixes blue eyes on John and gives another, quieter yowl. It’s… tortoiseshell, he thinks the word is, with tufts of hair on its ears and long, glossy fur.

“Leave him alone, Grimshaw,” John groans, holstering his gun. “He’s still a kid.” The same age John himself was when Dutch saved him from a hanging, but he will give his son a better life if it kills him.

The cat stares at him, tail swishing in agitation.

“Grimshaw?” Abigail asks, coming into the house behind him.

John sighs, rubs his temples to stave off the swift-approaching headache. “I’ll explain, but I’d rather only do this once. Come on out, Jack, I won’t let her bully you.”

They convene in the main room, with the ghost — reincarnation? — of Susan Grimshaw perched atop the table by the window. She looks out the pane, seemingly unconcerned with John giving his best explanation of the past month’s strange events, with each of his audience nodding along, some more skeptical than others. Charles believes even more than John does, while Sadie, true to her nature, isn’t having any of it. She insists Hosea was just a fed bear that would’ve turned when it realized John had no food, if she hadn’t shot at it. “And this— this is just a cat!”

Grimshaw turns to stare at Sadie then, unblinking. Sadie makes a face.

“All right then,” John says. “Hey, ‘just a cat’, did Micah kill you at Beaver Hollow years ago?”

Slow blink, then an unmistakable nod. Uncle whistles low.

“This is stupid,” Sadie says, but even she is shaken. “You were the only one of us who was actually there.”

John looks to Grimshaw, who turns her back on them, toward the window. Like she’s looking for something.

“I believe it,” Jack says quietly. “Kieran, he— he was saying sorry.”

Grimshaw startles, at if she’d forgotten the boy was there, and jumps down from her perch. She nudges Jack in the shoulder, and he gently runs a hand down her back. She arches, purring, then nudges him again.

“What is she trying to say?” Abigail asks.

Jack blushes. “I think— I think she wants me to wash up.”

John is forcibly reminded of Grimshaw dragging him to the water barrel many times at camp. Arthur too, when he’d come back to them after running himself ragged.

_Arthur_.

“Miss Grimshaw,” he says, and the cat pauses where she’d been tailing Jack and Abigail to the bath. “Is there anyone else coming?”

She looks back at him, cocks her head to the side. Slow blinks. But she doesn’t indicate yes or no that he can tell, and disappears into the other room, leaving his heart heavy.

_#_

He should know better than to expect Arthur, whatever he is, to come after Grimshaw’s non-answer, but it still hits him hard when days turn into weeks, then another month has gone by without a visit from the brother who saved him.

It has been so long, and he has tried so hard to forget. Why come now? Why did any of them come now?

He gets his answer when Sadie comes, a fire in her eyes, and talks of Micah and revenge. He has to do it, for Arthur. Arthur never stood on revenge, had made his opinions on it clear, but this is _John_ doing it _for_ Arthur, and he can’t let it go. Can’t let it go though Abigail begs him. This is Micah, finally making a mistake.

This is Micah, finally going to pay.

Grimshaw’s sitting on their bed, gives him a slow blink when he runs in to grab the guns from the trunk. Sean’s on the pasture fence, Kieran standing next to him. Molly runs alongside them for a few seconds just after they cross the Montana River, yipping. And as they leave Strawberry, Cleet dangling dead behind, Lenny flies overhead, straight and unerring.

There’s no sign of Hosea, though, all the way up the mountain. Then John’s a bit more preoccupied with shooting than wondering if the dead man approves.

He’s not surprised, exactly, when Dutch interrupts his and Sadie’s revenge. Less surprised when Dutch greets him with a condescending “Hello, son,” and downright saw Micah turning the tables on Sadie coming. The best he can do is hope to get through to Dutch, hope that somewhere under the frayed mind and paranoid delusions that there’s some bit of his old self left. Micah keeps talking, though, offering a place with them, as if he would fall for something like that even if he didn’t have Abigail and Jack.

But if the rat wasn’t running his mouth, it’d be a cold day in hell, so he keeps his cool as best he can and talks mostly to Dutch.

“—say something,” he begs, when Dutch’s cold eyes have bored into him too long.

Micah laughs, high-pitched and triumphant. Sadie makes an anguished noise, struggling against him while blood drips to the cold ground.

Micah laughs, until he isn’t laughing anymore. He’s staring at a spot over John’s shoulder, mouth hanging open. “What the fuck—”

“Son—” Dutch finally says, warning shout dying on his lips. John doesn’t, can’t take his eyes off the guns currently pointed at him, though Dutch’s is wavering.

He hears snuffling, feels Hosea’s presence at his back, and then his side.

“You have a _bear?!_ ” Micah screams.

John ignores him. “Hosea, what’re you doin' here?” he asks out the side of his mouth, though he knows Hosea can’t answer.

The look on Dutch’s face would be comical under any other circumstance. In one smooth movement his other arm comes up and Micah collapses, a bullet through his head. Sadie falls, breathing harsh but steady.

Dutch stares at Hosea, wonder coming over his face. Hosea takes a step forward, snuffling hard, smelling the air.

“It can’t be…” Dutch breathes, guns slipping from his fingers.

“It is.” He holsters his own pistol. “I’ve had all of them visit me. Sean, Kieran, Lenny, Miss Grimshaw. Even Molly.”

If he had thought a mention of Dutch’s old flame would startle the man, he would be sorely disappointed now. Dutch, still with that fragile wonder, doesn’t so much as blink. “And— and Arthur?”

John doesn’t answer, walking around behind Hosea to crouch by Sadie’s side. She’ll be okay, he thinks — but she does need a doctor just in case. “Thank you, Dutch,” he says. “I hope— I hope we don’t meet again, for everyone’s sakes.”

“You…” Dutch whispers, and John turns around. He’s come closer to Hosea while his back was turned, reaching out with trembling fingers. Hosea had sad eyes, even in life, but now their sorrow is enough to drown in.

The instant Dutch’s glove brushes his forehead, the ghost fades away, and there is no trace he was ever there at all, not even footprints. Dutch’s breath hitches, then comes out in a great puff in the freezing mountain air. He stumbles away without a word, head down, and disappears down the other trail.

John watches him go.

_#_

“Farewell, and happy matrimony!”

Their little family waves the officiant goodbye as he sets the wagon going and rolls off. John feels lighter than he has in a long time, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a little boy. They have the Blackwater money, they have their new lives, they have each other. Abigail is more beautiful than ever in her wedding gown. He picks her up and twirls her around, carrying her into the house while Sadie and Charles clap and Uncle wolf-whistles.

Life settles into a kind of bliss, an almost boring bliss but there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Charles leaves, then Sadie; north and south to lives of their own. Jack hits another growth spurt and John will never again wonder at his parentage; they look too much alike. They raise their horses and goats and chickens, and John teaches Jack while learning himself how to ranch.

With Micah a frozen corpse, the ghosts’ business seems done, and he doesn’t see his animal visitors again. Sometimes, just before falling asleep, he’ll think of Arthur, but these thoughts intrude less and less as time rolls on. It’s over, as he told Abigail. Well and truly done.

Until it isn’t.

They come in the pre-dawn dim a year to the day after Micah’s death. John recognizes Agent Ross immediately, but the man beside him is new.

“What do you want?” he calls, much steadier than he feels. He knows already. He knows; they can’t leave well enough alone.

But he stands guard on the porch anyway, between his family and the Pinkertons — wait, who’s funding them now? — though he knows it’s futile. They’ve been found. And all he’s worked for is about to come crashing down.

“Good morning, Mr. Marston,” Ross answers, a mocking lilt to his voice. “I’m afraid your stunt on Mount Hagen has attracted some attention.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” How the hell did they trace that back to him? Back here?

Fucking Micah. Even in death.

“You know very well, Mr. Marston. The Bureau of—”

He’s cut off by an inhuman bellow-scream, like a dying deer, and the biggest stag John’s ever seen leaps the pasture fence and charges toward them, skidding to a stop in front of the agents. Sides heaving, crown of antlers lowered, long legs pawing the dirt, he stands between them and John, as tall as their horses.

Their mounts’ eyes roll back and they buck their riders off, the agents landing hard in the dust. Ross’ foot is caught in his stirrup, and he’s dragged a few feet by his fleeing horse before he manages to untangle himself.

John can’t breathe. He grabs onto the porch railing, anything to steady himself, fumbling with his gun but his palms are sweaty — this can’t be real—

The stag snorts, head lowering further as he approaches Ross. The agent recovers fast. He snatches his revolver from its holster, and fires two shots in quick succession.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up from John’s throat at the flabbergasted look on Ross’ face when the bullets pass straight through and keep going, puffing into the dirt hillside. The stag blinks slowly, unperturbed.

“You can’t kill a dead man, Ross!” John manages to get out through his giggles.

Arthur Morgan — his savior, in life and in death — strolls up to the agent, lowers his head, and touches the tip of one magnificent antler to Ross’ forehead. A warning. And those eyes — as blue as ever — the one looking at John _winks_.

The other agent scrambles up. Arthur’s head tilts, but the man just grabs at Ross’ shoulder and hauls him up, terror stark on his face. “Let’s go,” he urges.

“But—”

“Come on!”

That spurs Ross into action. “Until next time, Mr. Marston,” he says, eyes never leaving the stag. Arthur lowers his head again, toeing the dirt like a bull, and Ross blanches. “Come, Agent Fordham.” He fast-walks for the road and their still-nervous horses. Fordham follows backward after him, holding his gun like it could actually protect him if Arthur decided to charge. Within minutes they’re gone, and John is slowly coming down from his mood whiplash.

“Boy am I glad to see you,” he says quietly. Arthur twitches an ear toward him, but doesn’t turn.

“Are they gone?” Abigail cracks open the door. Then Jack squeezes around her, flying down the steps with a cry of, “Uncle Arthur!”

The stag flinches, but turns then, letting the boy reach up and put his arms around his neck. Gently, slowly, he drops to a kneel, then lays down, letting Jack bury himself against him — like John had done with Hosea over a year ago — and cry.

Abigail comes outside and puts her hand on his back, supporting him with her quiet strength. “Go on, John,” she says after a while of just standing there, watching their son and his uncle. There’s a sad smile on her face. “You need this.”

John swallows, drifts closer. Jack’s cried himself out, and lifts his face, nodding. He returns to his mother, and John lowers himself to sit in the spot he’d been. The house door opens and shuts, and then it’s just the two of them, looking out over the ranch. Brothers.

“I missed you,” he whispers, voice cracking, finally reaching up to stroke Arthur’s flank.

Arthur lets out a deep breath, turning to look at him at last.

“I thought you weren’t going to come.”

A huff.

“I know, I was stupid. Like you said, the wolves ate the last of my good sense.”

Arthur lowers his head, watching him through his lashes, but those brilliant blue eyes still strike him with the force of a train. They say, “ _I forgive you._ ” They say, “ _I’m sorry._ ”

“I’ll be just fine. I reckon you scared ‘em enough to buy us some time.”

Those eyes close, though if it’s in contentment or pain at John’s desperate optimism he doesn’t know. Still, he knows it’s just about time. Arthur’s got to be moving on, same as all of them.

So he leans close and whispers into Arthur’s ear.

“I love you, brother.”


End file.
